The Storm on the Horizon
by blueskydog
Summary: Who are these people? How do they function in each other's lives, behind the scenes, in the areas of existence that no one on the dance floor is privileged enough to see? A look into each of the Lab's employees and their role in the murder investigation.
1. Prologue

There's a nightclub that inhabits a block in the heart of the city. The whimsical neon sign reads "The Lab." It's probably some kind of insider joke, because no one's quite sure where the name comes from.

A lot of people come here. It's a lively joint.

But crowds come and go. The thing that keeps the place going are the ones that remain. The ones that keep the place alive, working behind the scenes.

From the outside it seems like clockwork, because nothing's ever out of place and nothing ever goes awry. No one sees the effort each member of the team puts into making this place the best it can be.

And when something does go wrong, no one sees the way the team works together to set things right.

Sometimes, not even the employers see what goes down with the staff when they're not around.


	2. Angela

Angela's a social butterfly. She flits from person to person at the nightclub, dropping quips, tips, hints and flirts. She always has the right words, be they a sly sideways remark when the opportunity presents itself or a firm reprimand when things get out of hand. She checks on the tables, all smiles, making sure everyone is having a good time. She relishes the compliments, soaks in the smiles throw her way. She has a knack for putting things together, laying things out; she swoops down on a table as soon as it's cleared, rearranging the condiments, table decorations, and coasters into an eclectic and pleasing display.

She's been at the nightclub for years now. She's asserted herself among her co-workers; often, she's the one they go to for advice. Though it can sometimes be flattering—like when Bren seeks out her insight, or Wendell takes her aside to confer with her on particular patrons—other times it's annoying, like when Vincent seeks feedback on his outfits or Zack sneaks over to her to ask for the meaning behind a particular idiom. There are other, more extreme cases as well. When Daisy was hired as something of a glorified waitress, Bren had presented her to Angela with the expectation that she act as the younger woman's mentor. Angela was not thrilled. She preferred working alone; though she enjoyed the company of others, she was most definitely not a team player. Besides, Daisy was, well, _Daisy._ An over-sharing, oblivious, flighty, immature creature. Angela didn't know how to handle her except to show her around, explain the basic workings of the place, then kick her out of the nest and hope that she found her wings on the way down.

Angela is used to getting hit on. It's part of the package that comes along with being a hostess. As with everything else, there is a balance. Some people are purely complimentary. Some are altogether too forward. Some she allows to take her home for a night. Some she points out to Wendell to ban from the premises.

So when this guy approached her that night, she didn't think much of it.

He sidled up to her as she sat at the bar sipping a cream soda (she was, unfortunately, not allowed to drink on the job—though some nights she desperately wished she could). He cleared his throat to be noticed. She was taking a break, so she gave him some attention. She cast a smile his way, using that moment to scope him out. He was fairly ordinary-looking. Not too tall, not too broad, not too hairy. He was wearing a nice suit, and when he put his hand up on the bar, she noticed a gold ring on his finger. _Fancy._

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked after meeting her gaze for a moment.

"I'd say yes," Angela replied, "but I'm on the job right now."

He quirked an eyebrow. "You work here?"

"I do." She preened a little. "I basically run the place."

He turned his body to face her, resting his left arm on the bar. "Is that so?"

"Practically. I'm the hostess. Mr. B and Bren are the real owners, though."

He cocked his head. "Mr. B?"

"Mr. Booth. Have you heard of him?" He shook his head. "Booth's a pretty big cheese around here, but you wouldn't know it meeting him. He takes great care of this place—and all of us."

"Sounds like a great guy."

"Oh, he is."

"So, you like working here?"

Angela nodded, taking another sip of her soda. "It's like a second home. We all look out for each other."

"Sounds like the terrific atmosphere doesn't limit itself to the dance floor."

Angela grinned; men were cute when they tried to be clever.

"So what do you do, exactly?" he asked. Sweets swept by to spin a frosted glass in his direction; the man caught it and brought it to his lips. It was one of those weirdly synchronized moments that can only happen in a misty club close to midnight.

"I'm the hostess," Angela said. "I take care of the people that come in, make sure everyone's having a good time."

"Are you good at it?"

She cast him her best side smile. "Depends on your definition of good."

He chuckled into his cup.

"I'd say I'm the life of the party almost every night," Angela said. "I know this place inside and out. Though, if I completely had my way," she cast a brief glance around the place, taking in the setting past the crush of dancing, drinking patrons—"I'd lay it out a little differently."

"Really? Why?"

"I have an eye for placement. I set out to be an interior decorator."

"Interior decorator?" He leaned a little closer. "Do you have any experience with it?"

"Not much," Angela admitted. "I have a lot of ideas, though."

"Well, I'm setting up my own nightclub across town. I'm not sure what to do with it, though, with the layout and such. Do you think you could help me out?"

Angela clasped her hands, delighted. "Um, yes!"

He grinned. "Great! I wouldn't be able to pay you much—I'm just getting started—but we could help each other out, yeah? You help me set up my business—I'll help you with your passion."

"Sounds like a great deal to me." She lifted her glass, and he copied her to clink the two together. They each took a swig.

"Ahh." He wiped his mouth. "Could you show me some of your ideas?"

"What would you like?" Angela asked.

"Well." He glanced around the place. "You said you'd rearrange things in here if you could? Why not draw me up a map of this place and show me what you've got."

"Totally." Angela pursed her lips and looked for a drawing medium. She grabbed a napkin from the bar and some lipstick from her purse, and drew an outline of the Lab.

She was pulling out her mascara to brush in some details when a familiar voice intoned, "Angela."

Angela sighed internally and looked up. "Yes, Jared?"

He stood on the other side of her, leaning against the bar coolly in his trying-to-be-macho-but-failing-because-of-his-baby-face way. He cast a smoky smile her way before narrowing his eyes at the man on her other side.

"Am I interrupting?" he asked.

"Actually, yeah, you kind of are." Angela decided not to hide her annoyance. "Is there something in particular you want?"

Jared's words were directed at her, but his eyes seemed oddly focused on the other man. "I was wondering if you were free this Friday night."

"Sorry. Working. You know how busy Fridays are. They can't spare me."

Usually Jared took this as his cue to say "Well, maybe I'll see you then anyway" with what he thought was a sly wink (that was one problem with working at a nightclub—snubbed dates knew exactly where to find you. Hence the growing no-entry list with Wendell).

This time, however, he seemed fixed on the other guy. Angela vaguely questioned his sexuality before returning to her drawing. "Anything else, Jared?"

"What are you drawing?" Finally his attention was back on her, which was both flattering and frustrating. She turned to him again.

"You know, I just got commissioned to help decorate a new place across town. I was showing my new friend here some ideas I had for the Lab." She looked to where the man had been sitting—but he was gone, a few bills crumpled next to his empty cup.

"Sorry, did I scare away your date?" Jared asked.

Angela downed the last of her cream soda. "You just have that affect on people." She set the glass on the bar and rose from her stool. "I have to get back to work. See you later, Jared."

She turned with a flounce. As annoyed as she was, she couldn't help treating him to a choice view of the ass he'd never have.

"Hey, you didn't pay!" called Sweets from behind the bar.

"I work here," she barked, and slipped into the crowd to work her magic. She was miffed at Jared for interrupting her conversation with the other man, but in the long run it wasn't a big deal. She'd probably never see the guy again.


	3. Wendell

Wendell takes care of his own. Always has, always will. He has an eye for the unsavory, and instinct on who to look out for. He's loyal to the ones he cares for, who care for him. He's been working at the nightclub for several months—maybe not as long as some of the others, but he's central enough to the operation that it seems he's always been here.

He looks decently intimidating, but his soft features don't make him strictly terrifying. Angela says he's kind of cute—but she says that about a lot of people (though when she says it about Zack, it's in a different context. No one's sure if Zack is aware of the differentiation).

Sometimes, the others wonder if Wendell sleeps. He seems to always be somewhere, always moving. They wonder where he goes at night; the only ones that see him leave are Bren and Mr. B, who are the only ones that sometimes stay after Wendell leaves

Patrons of the Lab tend not to approach Wendell. He has a calmly menacing air that sends most ill-intentioned folks tip-toing back out the door.

As far as the team goes, he mostly confers with Booth, Bren, and Angela, whose roles were directly related to his (as owners and hostess). But the team is _his_ , after all, and he looks out for what's his. When Fisher was late to work one day, Wendell was all set to call the police and send them to Fisher's place for a welfare check when the chef sauntered in with his usual morose demeanor. Wendell took him aside, pleasantly recommending he set his alarm to a higher volume. Later, when Fisher wasn't looking, Wendell removed all the knives from the kitchen and put them in Bren's safe. Fisher was compelled to use his blender to chop the vegetables that day.

(When Bren opened the safe and found it full of knives, she almost had a heart attack. Mr. B caught Wendell and told him the next time he wanted to protect Fisher from himself, Wendell should talk to Mr. B and Bren first so they could find a more efficient method.)

Wendell assesses how much the others need his protection. For Fisher it's fairly obvious; the poor guy doesn't seem to have an agenda one way or the other when it comes to life and death. Sometimes he needs constant surveillance.

Vincent's annoying, but because he's so oblivious to the effect he has on others, he's kind of endearing. People tend to like him, so he's not as much in need of protecting. Wendell sees this as slightly unfortunate, as hanging out with Vincent can actually be fun. Vincent's random trivia lends humor to the slower days. Wendell finds himself learning more from the DJ than he did most of his Junior year in high school.

Zack needs a lot of protection. He's scared of spiders, for one thing, but mostly, he needs protection from all the facets of life no one's ever bothered to explain to him, which is a never-ending task that Wendell primarily concedes to Bren.

Sweets is kind of just there. He tends to himself as well as he tends bar, which is to say, he takes good care of himself.

Wendell avoids Daisy as much as possible, though he's pretty sure there will come a day when she will need his protection from something or other, at the rate she gets herself into mischief.

They're all _his_ ; he protects his own, no matter the status of their relationship.

And he knows a threat when he sees one.

That night, as he stood in his spot, rotating his scope from the dance floor to the bar to the stage to the door, this guy swaggered over to him, drink in hand.

"Hey, bud," the man said. "Busy night?"

Wendell eyed him silently.

"Have you tried the beer?" he asked. "I got the Blue Moon, but I'm not quite feeling it. Do you have any recommendations?"

Wendell shook his head. "Not my area."

"Too bad. You look like a guy with good tastes."

He took a long sip as Wendell merely stared back.

"So what do you do here?" he asked Wendell.

Wendell blinked slowly. "I do what I need to."

He laughed. "Smartass. I like it."

Wendell didn't need his approval. Besides, when someone says they like something about you, it almost always means they plan on sticking around.

"Need something?" Wendell asked. "I can call the hostess."

"Nah. I was just talking to her." Wendell made a mental note to confirm this with Angela. "So, what, are you the bouncer or something?"

"Who wants to know?"

The guy met his gaze. His humor seemed to be waning.

"Are you always this curt?" the guy asked.

"When I need to be." Another red flag: the guy was trying to be off-handed, but most people around here don't throw the word _curt_ around. If he was putting on a face, he wanted something.

"Look," Wendell said, "I know it looks like I'm just hanging around, but I have work I need to do. It's a nightclub; go find yourself a drink and a nice gal."

It took the guy a minute to break his gaze from Wendell's and glance into his cup. "Well, nice chatting with you," he said. "And, pro tip, try not to scare off the ladies. You might get some one of these days." He sauntered away.

Wendell waited a few minutes before darting over to Vincent at his stand, where the DJ was jamming out to his playlist. "Vince, I got a favor to ask."

Vincent jumped a bit. "Whoa, wear a bell or something."

"Keep an eye on the door for me," Wendell said. "I'll be back in five."

"What? Songs? Or minutes? Hey, why? Wendell?"

Wendell was already gone, weaving through the crowd until he spotted Angela. He gently grabbed her elbow and steered her to an empty table.

"What?" she whispered, letting herself be tugged along.

"Anybody chat you up just now?" Wendell asked. They leaned towards each other as they slipped into the booths.

"Uh, like who? I kind of talk to a lot of people."

"Tall, suit, fancy watch?"

"Oh." Angela's brow puckered. "Yeah, I think I did see that guy. Why?"

"He said he talked to you."

She snorted. "He was hitting on me. Don't worry," she added when Wendell narrowed his eyes. "It was pretty innocent. We just talked about interior decorating."

"Hm." Wendell glanced back out to the crowd, the people mingling in the vibrating strobe lights.

"Do I need to be worried?" she asked.

"Not now," Wendell said. "Just keep an eye out. I have a feeling about him."

"Well, I've learned not to take your feelings lightly. Thanks for the heads-up, Wendell."

He nodded and dipped through the crowd back to his post.

"What was that about?" Vincent said, sprinting over to Wendell as soon as Wendell returned to the door. "You know how hard it is to spin disks while keeping your eye on a door?"

"You did it, though," Wendell said.

Vincent shrugged, a bit of pride on his face. "Yeah, alright."

Wendell gave him a nod and pulled out a fresh toothpick.

"I know that toothpick," Vincent said. "It's your something's-not-right-in-the-neighborhood toothpick."

"You're making things up. Go back to your disks."

Vincent huffed and turned to go.

Wendell kept his eye out, but didn't see the guy again that night. Sometimes creeps are just creeps. He locked up as usual, checking on Bren first as she lingered in her office. It was 3am; Zack would be coming in around four. As protective as he was, Wendell knew he'd be fine leaving Bren alone. There's not much that could happen in the span of an hour around here.


	4. Fisher

Fisher's not the most jolly person in the world. He used to try harder, he really did. But it takes a lot of effort to emit cheerfulness. He's not sure how other people do it.

He's been to the finest cooking schools in Europe. Not because he's particularly fond of cooking; mostly because it's one of the few things he doesn't suck at. It's a little mindless after a while, especially when you work in food service and make the same things over and over again. He became motivated to become a lead chef when the bar-and-grill he worked at kept switching up their menu. It threw off his mojo.

The others at the club used to hang out with Fisher mostly out of pity. But some of them did actually grow fond of him after a while. Of course, Vincent's friends with everybody, and his perpetual cheerfulness balances out Fisher's perennial gloom, so they're more often seen together than some of the others (even if the relationship consists mostly of trivia duels, with Fisher's being the bleaker of the two).

Angela is mostly nice to everybody. Fisher gets the feeling she sometimes wants to pat him on the head when she doesn't know what to say.

Sweets spends a decent amount of time with Fisher, as their work stations are in close proximity. Sweets casually asks him probing questions that would have kept Fisher on his toes had he the energy to tiptoe in the first place. He appreciates the effort, however misguided it may be.

Wendell doesn't really hang out with people, but acts like some kind of guard dog. Fisher does notice, however, that Wendell actually tries to make eye contact with him at least once a day. He probably believes the eyes are the window to the soul, poor, idealistic youth.

Zack and Fisher actually talk a lot. Fisher suspects it has something to do with Zack's miscomprehension of the human condition. Zack usually brings a deck of cards to the bar when Fisher's hanging around there, laying them out over and over again, organized by value and suit. He seems to think Fisher is as straightforward as those cards. Fisher has to give him an A for effort.

And then there's Daisy. The two of them have a _thing_ —Fisher doesn't like labels. Daisy likes labels, but she's also kind of flighty. She doesn't mind flirting with other people while still calling Fisher her boyfriend, which should be fine because Fisher doesn't consider himself her boyfriend. But he does find it irritating when Daisy's a little too obvious about it.

Fisher's decently fond of his wings; especially the Tower of Wings, the creation of which he credits for much of the nightclub's success. Most of the others on the team give him that. It's probably the only thing in his life he takes pride in.

With great success comes great responsibility. Fisher is often called on to do inventory, a massive task. It's mostly fine; he's pretty possessive of his ingredients, anyway, and isn't ecstatic about the idea of other people going through his stuff. (To be fair, he doesn't really get ecstatic over anything.)

Besides, this menial task was just as good as any of the other menial tasks allotted to him throughout his life.

And it's just his luck—what little luck he has in this thankless world—that he's the one around when Zack finds the body.

They'd just finished inventory, and Fisher was firing up the stoves when he heard Zack scream. It's not that Fisher didn't take it seriously; he just moved slowly on his way towards the sound. Zack freaking out wasn't exactly unheard of when the two of them worked together. The kid had a healthy set of lungs on him.

"What is going on?" Fisher asked laconically as he stepped into the bathroom.

Zack stood, petrified, pointing at something in one of the stalls. Fisher strode over to see a body slumped against the bathroom wall. There was a streak of blood on the wall above the guy's head, and blood on his shirt, and some on the floor.

"Huh," Fisher said.

Zack put his hands over his mouth. "What do we do?"

"Well, I'd say we should clean it up, but that's not our job, so we should probably wait until the cleaners get here."

"You're not freaked out that there's a dead body in here?"

" _Is_ he dead?" Fisher asked.

Zack's hands dropped to his sides as he looked at Fisher incredulously. _"Yes."_

"Hey, I'm not good with the whole deductive reasoning thing," Fisher said. "When you're dead inside, it's hard to tell what life looks like on the outside."

"Do you see all the blood?"

"Yes."

"There's a lot of blood."

"I can see that."

"I have no idea how much blood there actually is in the human body, but I'd say most of _his_ is on the wall right now."

"I'll take your word for it."

Zack risked another glance at the corpse, shuddering. "I hate looking at dead things."

Fisher shrugged. "I've imagined worse."

"So what are we going to do?" Zack said. "Should I call Bren?"

"Of course not," Fisher said.

Zack's incredulity doubled. "Why not?"

"Mr. B obviously killed this guy," Fisher said. "And since those two basically the same person, chances are she killed him too."

"How do you know that?" Zack asked.

"They were the last ones in the club last night," Fisher said, "aside from Wendell. If Wendell did it, the body would be gone by now. So it must have been them."

Zack shook his head, as if trying to understand. "I thought you said you weren't good at deductive reasoning."

"It doesn't take a rocket scientist to make a connection."

"I don't understand why a rocket scientist has anything to do with this," Zack said. "Besides, I would assume they make a lot of connections, working on the interior mechanisms of a complex flying apparatus."

Fisher sighed. "I'd say your obliviousness to the intricacies of modern cultural references are amusing, but since such tidbits as that quip are meaningless in the grand scheme of things, it would be pointless."

"If we can't call Bren or Mr. B, what are we going to do?"

Fisher stared at the dead man thoughtfully.

"Let's take it up to advisement," he said. "Let the others know what we found. Working here has been one of the least unpleasant experiences of my life thus far, and if Mr. B gets arrested for murder, that's not going to last much longer."

"Your job or your life?" Zack asked.

Fisher cast him a morose look. "Is there a difference?"

"So, we're going to tell the others what happened, but not Bren or Mr. B."

"It's their night club. They have to find out eventually. But I think we should use this time to our advantage."

"What time?" Zack asked. "Isn't this kind of an emergency?"

Fisher waved a hand at the corpse. "You see him getting any deader?"

Zack shrugged helplessly.

Fisher pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of the body. "I'm sending this to the group chat. If we're going to keep this murder a secret, we have to work together."

"What do you mean, secret? You want to get rid of the body?" Zack asked.

"I have no idea how to deal with human remains," Fisher said. "I can't think of a single creative way to dispose of it. Can you?"

Zack shook his head.

"There you have it," Fisher said. "We're stuck with this guy. The police may find the body, but we can make sure Mr. B gets off the hook. The best we can do is impede the investigation."

"I don't know how I feel about this," Zack said.

"At least you feel things."

Fisher pushed _send_ on his phone and waited for the others to respond. Hopefully this incident would blow over quickly and without aftershock. The last thing any of them needed was more drama.


	5. Vincent

Vincent is Bren's favorite.

She's never spoken it out loud—as far as he knows, at least—but he can tell it's true. They have the most interesting conversations (she's intrigued by his myriad of little-known facts). She talks to him about music—sometimes she launches into descriptions of music from some other culture, and he'll counter with trivia about the culture. It's a real give-and-take.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, she (along with, likely, everyone else at the club) finds Daisy insufferably annoying. Bren doesn't have much in common with Wendell—he's more Mr. B's guy. She isn't particularly fond of Sweets; she thinks bartenders should be seen and not heard—not in a mean way, of course, because Bren is never mean—just in that she feels Sweets could work more, talk less, and stop trying to psycho-analyze the fellows (like Mr. Hodgins) that give him the time of day.

Fisher, well—no one knows what to make of Fisher. He's just kind of there, oozing melancholy. Bren works with him as she does everyone else, and is perhaps kinder to him than many of his co-workers, but there's no special connection.

Zack, of course, doesn't count.

So Vincent proudly reigns as The Favorite, a title so undisputed no one bothers to challenge it or even mention it at all.

Along with being charming, talented, and quite pleasing to look at, if he does say so himself, Vincent's a straightforward guy. He doesn't like lying. He rarely has a reason to, but when he's given one, he shies away. So when Fisher asked them all to lie to the police as they were called into questioning, he went for a different method.

"Have you ever seen this man?" Detective Saroyan asked, sliding a picture of the dead guy his way. They sat across from each other in the interrogation room. The table seemed unnecessarily long between them.

"Never," he said truthfully. (He was, he'd find later, the only one out of the crew who'd not seen Vorstenbach, dead or alive, aside from Sweets. Seeing him in a picture didn't count.)

"Not walking around the nightclub, not dancing to your music?" the detective asked.

"Nope," Vincent said.

He was proud of himself. This was going well so far.

"You're the nightclub's DJ," the detective said. "You have a pretty choice position by the dance floor. It would be easy to look around and spot somebody."

"That is true," Vincent said.

Caroline gave him a dirty look.

"But," he remedied, "I don't. You see I'm mostly focused on my music."

"It really demands so much of your attention?" Jared asked, lurking behind Saroyan.

"Oh, yes," Vincent said. "You'd be surprised."

"Surprise me," Detective Saroyan said.

 _No one ever appreciates the DJ._ "I'm not just spinning disks. I have to keep time, pick the right songs in the right order to keep the beat going. Slide from one mood to the next. It's all I can do to keep my hands moving fast enough." His fingers danced in circles on the table to demonstrate.

"Hm." He couldn't tell if she were convinced or not.

Vincent glanced to Caroline hopefully. _I'm doing a good job, aren't I?_

"We heard from some of your co-workers that there's another performance artist trying to get a place on the Lab's lineup," the detective said.

She acknowledged him as a performance artist! Unlike _some_ people he knew…

"Who, C-Synch?" Vincent asked.

The detective raised an eyebrow. "You tell me."

Vincent gave himself a pat on the back, and he launched into another _cooperative_ train of conversation without uttering _a_ _single lie._

When they dismissed him, he exited the interrogation room and back into the clutch of co-workers waiting their turn around the corner.

"How'd it go?" Daisy asked, rubbing one of the bows from her dress with her hands.

Vincent flicked the brim of his hat. "It was a breeze. Never broke a sweat."

"That's lucky for you," Angela said. "You have, like, nothing to do with any of it."

"I don't appreciate the term luck," Vincent said. "I find solace in my own powers of observation and interaction."

"Whatever," Angela said. "Did they say who's next?"

Vincent glanced back at the door. "I think they're deliberating right now."

"Well, Lance, Fisher and I already went," Daisy said, glancing around the group. "It's just Zack and Angela left."

"And Wendell," Zack said.

"Where is Wendell?"

"Here," he said from his position against the wall.

Vincent did a double take. "Is turning invisible your superpower?"

"I don't have superpowers," Wendell said.

Caroline stuck her head out of the interrogation room. "Ms. Montenegro, you're up."

Angela cast them all a glance—her expression was impossible to read—before walking into the room.

"Well, we're almost done." Daisy crossed her fingers, finally letting go of her skirt.

Waiting for the others to come back seemed to take much longer than talking to the detective himself. Or perhaps it was simply because Vincent navigated it so well, and the others didn't have his abilities. As their comrades ducked in and out of the room, the remaining took turns leaning listlessly against the wall (Sweets and Wendell), pacing or tapping their feet nervously (Daisy and Angela), racing dust bunnies on the floor (Zack and Fisher), or humming to their internal soundtrack (Vincent).

"We're done," Wendell said, the last to be questioned, as he rejoined them in the hallway. "That's everyone."

In response, some uttered sighs of relief (Daisy and Zack), others stood up straight (Sweets and Angela), and the rest stretched leisurely (Vincent and Fisher).

Caroline emerged from the room with a sour expression on her face. "This way, people."

"I'd say you all did a fabulous job in there," she said as they reconvened in the nightclub, "but that's only if your goal is to get yourself and everyone you work with locked up."

Vincent raised his hand tentatively. "If I could offer some reassurance as to my—"

Caroline pointed at him with enough force to cause his hand to drop back down. "I'm not handing out cookies today, Mr. Nigel-Murray. Besides, you don't know what they think about you."

"Is it anything bad?" he asked.

"That's for me to know and you to find out. Now what I need you all to do is business as usual. I don't want to see anyone wandering aimlessly or huddled in conversation. Go back to your posts and don't look suspicious."

Vincent tipped his hat in acknowledgement and the others nodded around him.

"Good." She let out a sigh. "Why I continue to bother with the bunch of you is anyone's guess but mine."

They split like bananas on a hot day fearing the presence of dairy and spent the next several hours as far away from each other as possible.

Vincent didn't _mean_ to eavesdrop; he just happened to be standing near the door as the detectives discussed their findings. And he happened to feel a bit tired, and the wall he leaned on happened to be positioned by the doorway where the detectives stood. It wasn't his fault he had good hearing. Being a DJ came with a number of gifts. He couldn't help it. He was born this lucky.

As he processed what he'd heard, he took solace in his equipment, gathering together what he needed to prepare for tonight. Music was the best therapy, and he planned to provide as much comfort to his comrades as possible in their time of need.

As he was juggling playlists through his head, Zack wandered over like a misplaced leaf.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm getting ready for the night crowd," Vincent said.

"Are you nervous at all about what's going on?"

"Didn't Caroline tell us not to gravitate toward each other?"

"I just don't feel like being alone right now, and everyone else is busy."

"Implying I'm not?"

"You're just moving things. I can help if you want."

Vincent batted Zack's hands away before they could touch anything. "I can manage, thank you."

Zack stepped back, resigned to simply watching Vincent work.

"There's a blood stain on the bathroom wall," Zack said.

Vincent was tempted to ignore him and move on, or else give him a vague response and hope he'd walk away. But after the events of today, having another live person in the room didn't seem like a bad idea.

Besides, conversations with Zack tended to be short and inconsequential.

* * *

I'm writing a tag to this chapter about Vincent and Zack's brief stint in jail, so keep an eye out for that!


	6. Daisy

Thank you, devoted fans, for your support thus far. Check out my profile for a new story about Zack and Vincent's adventure behind bars. Reviews are love

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Okay, Daisy's a flirt. But is that really a bad thing? What's wrong with living in the moment and appreciating the beauty in the people around you? Life's too short to not make the most of it.

She's honestly kind of oblivious to the others' dislike of her. Who doesn't like a cheery, romantic, youthful personality? She's pretty sure she brightens the place up more than some of the others (Fisher, for example, or Wendell, who was cute, but a little too much of the tall-dark-and-scary variety to lend a warm glow.)

Maybe they're all just jealous, because Daisy is so successful at garnering love. The others aren't nearly so blessed. Angela hasn't pinned anyone down in months, instead, building up quite the repertoire of one-night-stands. Vincent is entirely too charming, but oddly seems uninterested in seeking romance. Wendell is too caught up in his work to give love a second thought (which just seems tragic to Daisy). Zack doesn't seem to know how the whole thing works, and no one has the heart to redirect him when he's doing it wrong. And Sweets—well, we'll get to him a little later.

Of course, the exceptions are Mr. B and Bren. A happier couple had perhaps never graced the premises.

Daisy adores Bren. She's everything Daisy's built herself to be—smart, beautiful, sexy. They're two peas in a pod. Maybe Daisy will run her own nightclub one day, and it'll be just like this one, only better.

Daisy is good at her job. She knows everyone who frequents the nightclub. Some of them fairly intimately. She's currently hooked up with Fisher. Despite his consistent depression, he's one of the sweeter guys she's dated, and he's great in the sack.

That doesn't limit her, though—Fisher's great about letting her explore and release some of her pent-up sexual tension when he doesn't feel like delivering.

She didn't notice his glances her way or the shake of his head as she leaned into Lance on the piano stool. She hadn't spent much time with Lance before now—he was just the bartender, and since she worked here, she didn't drink much. She'd seen him around, of course, and admired his dimples from afar, but it wasn't until she heard him sing that she realized how wonderful he was.

As soon as he was done cleaning up from his performance, she took him aside for a passionate kiss.

"Oh. Wow," he said as they broke away. "That was—that was nice."

"Yeah?" she batted her eyelashes at him. He was turning a little pink. Adorable.

"Um—could we do that again?"

She gladly obliged, leaning in even closer this time. She felt his hands on her back. He was starting to melt in before he suddenly broke away.

"Daisy," he whispered frantically, "I work here."

"So do I." She giggled.

"No, I mean what if someone sees us? I don't want to get in trouble."

"Hmm." She leaned in again but he held up a hand and she ended up kissing his palm.

"Daisy, seriously, I don't want to endanger my position. Could we pick this up later?"

"I have a better idea." She took his hand and lead him down the hallway.

"Where are we going?" Lance asked.

"The lost-and-found closet," she said. "No one ever goes in there."

She closed the door behind them, and they continued what they'd started. They were at it for a reasonable amount of time before Lance jerked away again.

"Are you sure no one comes back here?" he asked, nervously glancing at the door.

"Stop freaking out," she said. "Not even Wendell comes back here."

They crashed into the wall and then the floor, and when they got tired, lay there, she cuddling with his arm, he staring at the ceiling, both exhausted and exhilarated.

"That was nice," he said.

Daisy purred in affirmation.

"How'd you find out about this?" Lance asked. "Necking in here, I mean."

"Fisher and I do it a lot," she said. "Or we did, when he was more energetic."

"Are you and Fisher, like, exclusive?" he asked.

"Obviously not," Daisy said, "or I wouldn't be in here with you."

"So, you see a lot of guys?"

"Not a lot. Just sometimes. When the moment is right." She sat up to look at him, a bit serious now. "I hope this isn't too gross, but that dead guy?"

Lance wrinkled his nose, as if didn't like where this was going. "Yeah?"

"I kind of brought him here last night."

Lance sat up. " _Kind_ of? Like, here-here?"

"Yes, this closet. We made out a little. He wasn't feeling it, though. I could tell. I got bored and we left."

"So, wait, you took the dead guy in here?"

"Is that weird? It sounds weird when you put it like that. It didn't seem weird at the time. But he also wasn't dead then."

Lance lifted his hands to halt this train of thought. "I think we should tell Booth and Bren."

Daisy looked a bit alarmed. "That we made out in here?"

"Uh." He was _so_ cute when he blushed. "No, that's not important. I mean, of course it was important, just not—relevant. What they need to know right now is that you showed the dead guy this place and he might have used it to hide last night. You say Wendell never checks it?"

Daisy's eyes widened. "Oh my god!" she said. "That makes total sense." She deflated a little. "Do you think they'll blame me?"

"I think they'll be more focused on solving the murder," Lance said.

"But Fisher said not to help the investigation," Daisy said. "If we give them information, won't that make Bren and Mr. B look guilty?"

Lance tipped his head. "You think they did it?"

"Fisher says they did."

"Daisy, no matter who did it, we shouldn't be withholding evidence. It's unethical. And illegal."

"I know." She bit her lip. "I just wanted to help."

"Well, help me, now," Lance said. "Let's go tell them."

He stood and offered her his hand—such a _gentleman_ —and she let herself be lifted by him.

"I had a great time," she said, sidling up to his shoulder. "I hope we can do this again."

He laughed a bit. "Me too." Still blushing. Adorable.

She followed him, hoping this wouldn't have much to do with the case after all. It was just a little sex. That never hurt anyone, did it?


	7. Sweets

I thought it was interesting how Sweets was the only one in the team who was not thoroughly convinced that Booth and Bren were the killers. The thoughts that went into this chapter, along with "Someone Stole my Shoes," were what prompted this whole adventure into the intricacies of The Lab.  
On that note...you should totally go to my profile and read "Someone Stole my Shoes"...

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Sweets observes. He sees the world moving around him with fluid motions, people coming in and out, each with a story to be heard. He listens. No one sees the bartender—they're just there, serving, responding—but everyone wants to be heard by the bartender. Sweets has a lot of patience, a lot of curiosity, and a lot to say, which, he thinks, makes him perfect for this role.

It's not like he wants to study people—that just seems so tedious—but he enjoys making observations and discovering patterns. Like the one guy that always orders a light beer and sits in the same corner, always right around eight. Or Hodgins, the droll, lethargic novelist who's claimed a stool at the corner of the bar. Hodgins has garnered enough authority that few people challenge him for the spot. He's one of the rare ones that actually converses with Sweets instead of talking at him.

Much of the time, Sweets listens. Ironically, despite his bleak outlook on the world, Fisher seems to consider himself an expert in human existence and has quite a bit to say about it. Vincent is chatty, but rarely stays in one place long enough to sustain a deep conversation. Wendell doesn't really talk to anybody; his interactions with Sweets mostly consist of taking him aside to warn him about someone or instruct him to water down somebody's drink. Zack is hard to talk to, mostly because he seems to think everything that comes out of his mouth makes sense, even when it totally does not. Angela talks to everybody, and listens well when she wants, but seems a bit irritated somehow whenever she and Sweets converse. He's not sure if it's just her way, or if it's something about him that ticks her off.

Sweets is not as happy-go-lucky as the others who work at the club. They walk around most days as if the Lab is some fantasy dream world. Sweets is more cynical. He doesn't take things at face value. He's young, sure, hasn't seen as much of the world as some, but he doesn't assume that everyone, deep down, has altruistic intentions that justify their actions. It's not like people can just be saved by other people who care.

When he got the text from Fisher—a picture of a dead guy in the bathroom, captioned Mr. B probably killed this guy—Sweets wasn't convinced.

It could have been any one of them.

He was glad his job consists mostly of talking to people who don't work at the Lab.

Sweets was straightforward with the detectives. It was pretty easy—aside from seeing the picture before the cops arrived, he really had nothing to do with the murder or the plot his co-workers were brewing. Still, he didn't allude to a conspiracy. He didn't mention that the others were holding out.

He tried to distance himself from it, confiding in Hodgins rather than conversing with any of the others. He tried to press on as if it were just another day. He seized the opportunity to get his band an audition, resigned himself to the fact that they weren't getting the spot, and was pulled into a very satisfying diversion with Daisy.

Of course, it couldn't just be nice and end with the promise of a phone call and a few shy glances as the day went on. No, it just had to get tied to the murder.

So Sweets did what he thought everyone would agree was the right thing and told Daisy to tell Booth and Bren what she knew.

She didn't seem pleased afterwards.

"Why did you make me do that?" Daisy whispered, grabbing Sweets' arm as Booth and Bren left to confer.

Sweets looked at Daisy in surprise.

"It was the right thing to do," he said.

She looked a little angry. "Don't you understand that sometimes the right thing isn't the right thing?"

"What?" He was very confused.

She grunted, frustrated, and let go of his arm. "I mean, maybe it's the right thing to do from their perspective, but not ours."

"Okay, who's them and which one is us?"

"You're confusing me!" Daisy snapped.

Sweets flung out his hands helplessly. "What do you want me to do?"

"Maybe just be a bit more understanding," she said. "Bren and Mr. B do a lot for us. If we let them get caught for this, it's not going to end well for anyone."

"But what if they didn't do it?" Sweets asked. "If we go around with a preconceived notion on how this all went down, we're going to blind ourselves to the facts as they are. We need to let the detectives do their jobs. Find all the evidence, then make a conclusion. Not the other way around."

Daisy sighed in exasperation. "That's not the way we run things here."

She flounced off before Sweets could clarify who was "we", what "running things" looked like, and where exactly was "here."

He shook his head, trying to clear it. Move on, he told himself.

It was about time to start setting up for the night anyway. He straightened himself out and headed for the cellar. He started piling bottles into his cart to bring up to the bar. He set aside some empty boxes, to be broken down later, and reached for his case of premium gin.

As he pulled it into the light, he noticed something. He tipped it to view the top. It was already ripped, as if someone had tried to open it.

He lifted the flaps and saw a coat stuffed in among the bottles.

Pulling it out, it took him a minute, but he recognized it: it was Bren's.

"Holy shit," he muttered.

There was no way this was a coincidence. It had to have something to do with this whole Vorstenbach thing. Bren didn't go around shoving her clothes into boxes of booze, and it wasn't like anyone at the club to steal things from their bosses.

He pushed the coat back into the box, and the box back into its place in the stack. Then he shook himself. What am I doing? Shouldn't he tell someone about this? What if this was a clue? What if the coat was an important piece of evidence?

On the other hand, it was just a coat. There was no definite way to tie it to the murder. Leaving it alone wasn't obstruction of anything, was it? He could just pretend he'd never seen it and move on.

But back on the original hand, if it was somehow important, he could get into a lot of trouble for keeping it hidden, not to mention give the killer that much extra time to get away.

Why did things have to be so complicated? He hated getting involved in police business.

He put his hands to the back of his neck, sighing. He just needed a minute. A minute wasn't going to kill anyone.

Poor choice of words, Lance.

He left the crate of gin where it was and carried the cart with the rest of the bottles upstairs.

He was putting the bottles in their places under the bar when he saw Zack walking into the club.

"Hey," Sweets called over. "You're back." Zack turned and saw him. Sweets beckoned him over.

Zack slid onto a stool and put his elbows up on the bar. "What happened while I was gone?"

"Not much," Sweets said. He wasn't quite sure, though, what constituted as "much." He just didn't feel like talking about it.

"Where's Vincent?" Sweets asked. "He get out too?"

"Not yet," Zack said. "Just me."

Sweets poured Zack some ginger ale. (He was trained—he knew when people were thirsty, and what for.) "Why is that?"

Zack emptied his cup in two gulps and set it on the bar. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

"Of course I am." He wasn't, not particularly. It's not that anyone specifically disliked Zack—except maybe Hodgins—it was just that Zack seemed a little out there, and for many of them his presence or lack thereof didn't make much of a difference. "I was just wondering if there was some new development, that you were let out and Vince and Wendell are still in the clink."

"I have no idea," Zack said. "No one told us anything."

Sweets snorted. "Law enforcement are like that."

"Like what?"

"Never mind. Refill?"

Zack shook his head.

"So what happened?" Sweets asked. "No one told me why you and Vince got locked up."

"We found a gun in his stuff," Zack said. "I touched it."

Sweets put his hands on the bar and leaned forward incredulously. "Why? Why would you do something so stupid?"

Zack looked inside his empty cup.

Sweets stood up straight again. "You did it because you wanted to tamper with the evidence."

"I don't want Bren to get in trouble," Zack said. "Or Mr. B."

Sweets put a hand to his head. "You're so sure they did this."

"It makes sense," Zack said. "But they're good people. They only do things for good reasons. No one should get put away for that."

"But you were willing to get put away for something you didn't even do," Sweets said. "Just because you don't like the alternative."

Zack shrugged.

"I don't believe it." Sweets took the empty cup and started wiping the bar. "The rest of you—you're all so devoted. I just don't feel that."

"You're an observer," Zack said. "You're not really integrated. You're always on the other side of the bar. It's hard to feel connected like that."

Sweets raised an eyebrow. "You sound like a shrink."

Zack shrugged again.

Sweets set down the cup. He leaned towards Zack. "You were really prepared to get arrested for something you had nothing to do with, just to protect your boss?"

"Yes," Zack said.

Sweets glanced back at the door to the cellar. He took a breath and then turned back to Zack.

"Come with me," he said. "I've got to show you something."


	8. Zack

No one's sure what Zack's precise function is. "Assistant" covers a wide range. They see him around doing any number of things, and though most of them are Bren-related, there are times he branches out.

Not very easily—he has a hard time with people. He's an admirer of Hodgins' books, but when he tried to approach the author one day, he thought he'd ease his way into the flowery compliments by providing constructive criticism on the narrative's syntax. Hodgins didn't appreciate that. His vehement defense of his literary skill sent Zack scurrying back from whence he'd come (Bren's office).

There's also the times he tries to help Fisher in the kitchen. When cleaning out the deep-fryer one night, Zack spilled some of the grease onto a stove burner Fisher had forgotten to turn off. The grease began to burn upon contact with the hot surface. A blaze shot up. The smoke alarm went off. Everyone panicked.

Fisher threw water on the fire. Zack was reaching out with a jar of baking soda at the ready, and subsequently yelled at Fisher, shouting that if he did not pay attention to his kitchen safety courses, he should at least have some recollection of his high school chemistry classes. The burning oil, flung from its origin when the water hit it, made solid contact with Zack's shirt and hands. There was a reasonable amount of damage. Hearing the mayhem, Bren dropped everything to drive Zack to urgent care. Though he insisted shortly after that he could adequately perform any task needed of him, overprotective Bren gave him the week off and sent him home with his prescribed painkillers and a book about algebraic anomalies.

Sometimes it seems more like Bren adopted Zack into the nightclub family and Zack's paying his dues by doing whatever is asked of him. It's clear he adores Bren and relies on her for guidance in navigating the intricacies of the outside world.

Not there's not much outside the Lab that interests Zack. No one's sure if he has any kind of life outside work or if he just meanders about in some kind of wan existence, waiting to return to the place he feels at home. Fisher suspects he stays in his apartment most of the time, reading books as he tries to decipher the world around him. Angela thinks he spends a lot of time on online dating sites. Daisy suggests he has a large family and spends a lot of time skyping with them. Sweets says from what he knows of Zack, he's probably getting himself through school, maybe a master's in something, because despite his peculiarities, he really is exceptionally smart. Vincent thinks Zack might be a writer himself, which explains why he's so odd, because all writers are a little whacked. Wendell doesn't care at all what his co-workers do outside of the club, as long as they get back and forth safely.

Bren's the only one that really knows what to do with him. The others are fond of him in a way similar to how one feels towards a younger sibling or perhaps a stray dog. They don't really want him to stick around, but they care enough to help him when he really needs it.

He just doesn't seem to have any kind of job description.

So, while his life may be limited to the goings-on of the nightclub, his existence therein is relatively free-range. Maybe that's why Sweets picked him, out of everybody, to show the coat to. Zack doesn't have an agenda, and he certainly doesn't have the gall to commit or assist in a murder.

That day, Sweets took Zack into the cellar and pulled out the coat. He looked at it a second before handing it over to Zack.

"It's Bren's coat," Zack said, holding it in front of him.

"I know," Sweets said.

"Why are you showing it to me?"

"I don't know if it's tied to the murder or not. It seems like an awfully big coincidence that I find Bren's coat in an unusual spot when everybody who works here thinks she helped kill that Vorstenbach guy."

"You think it might be evidence."

"Like I said, I have no idea. I don't know what to do. What do you think? Should I turn it in?"

"Definitely not."

"Why?

"Vincent said the murderer used something to muffle the shot." Zack folded the coat over his arm and pointed to a tear in the fabric. "Look."

Sweets leaned over. "It's ripped."

"This coat wasn't ripped yesterday and it wasn't on the hook in her office when I got here this morning. I thought she'd brought it home. But it's here." Zack held the coat in front of him again. "Look. There's four holes."

Sweets shrugged. "Moths?"

Zack shook his head. "Watch."

He folded the coat lengthwise. "The holes match up." He folded it again, downward. "They match up this way, too."

Sweets stooped to look through the hole. He put his finger through and felt all the way to the other side.

"A bullet hole?" he asked.

"Someone folded the coat and used it to muffle the sound of the shot."

Sweets lifted his head to look back at Zack. "You think Bren did that."

"It's her coat."

"You think she's capable of murder?"

"I think if she saw a need to end a life, she'd do it."

"Zack, you never know if you're capable of taking a life until you're put in that situation. There's no telling if she'd be able to do this."

"Look at the evidence. It's Bren's coat. She was here at the time of the murder. That man was after her."

"What about Mr. B? You think he did it too?"

"I think they worked together to do what needed to be done to keep themselves and all of us safe."

Sweets put a hand to his temple. "So, Booth bashed his head into the wall, and Bren shot him."

"That's the most logical assumption."

"So what are we going to do with the coat?"

Zack crumpled it in his hands. "We get rid of it. It's evidence that could convict them."

"So you're going to tamper with evidence again? You realize that's illegal, right?"

"Bren and Mr. B were willing to do what it took to protect themselves. And us. I'm willing to do the same." Zack looked up to meet Sweets' gaze. "Are you going to report me?"

Sweets turned his head away and looked anywhere but Zack's face. Finally he glanced to the floor, muttering, "No. I'm not. I can't believe I'm saying this." Sweets ran a hand through his hair. "You're right."

Zack nodded firmly.

"Okay." Sweets faced him again. "How do we get rid of it?"

"We need to destroy it. We can't let it get found like the gun."

Sweets glanced around a minute, then his gaze snapped back to Zack. "Alcohol. We burn it."

"Yes. That's good."

"There's a lighter in my cabinet." Sweets dug out his keys and handed them to Zack. "Go find it. I have to get out the good stuff. Don't let anyone know what you're up to."

Zack traded the keys for the coat and turned to make his way upstairs. He searched behind the bar, looking for Sweets' cabinet.

"Zack!"

He spun around. Angela stood on the other side of the bar. She reached forward to pull him into an incredibly awkward hug. She seemed to regret it, falling back and straightening herself out before Zack could return the gesture. "When did you get back? Where's Vince and Wendell?"

"I think they're still there." Zack was trying to work out a polite way to make Angela leave so he could find the lighter. Sometimes when he was talking to people they turned away from him, which he'd learned after a (very long) while meant they wanted him to leave. Since most of the people who worked here proved to be friendly, he assumed the action was not considered rude. Maybe if he did that now, Angela would walk away without feeling bad.

He turned back to the shelves of bottles and moved his hand down the aisle, searching for the cabinet.

"What are you doing?"

He jumped a little. Angela hadn't left. Did he do it wrong?

He turned back to her. "I'm getting something for Sweets."

"He lets you behind the bar?" She wrinkled her brow.

"In this specific circumstance, yes."

At that moment Fisher strode up. He looked at Zack. "You're back," he said. "Where's Vince?"

"Why do people keep asking me about Vincent right after acknowledging my return?" Zack asked. "Is Vincent's presence more significant than mine?"

"Of course not," Angela said, at the same time Fisher said "Probably, you could say that I guess."

Angela glared at Fisher.

"What?" he said.

"I have to find a lighter," Zack said.

"Are you finally going to torch the place?" Fisher asked.

Angela flung out her hands. "Fisher, what's wrong with you?"

Fisher shrugged. "I never knew Zack to be the type to play with fire, but people can surprise you."

"Not Zack. Come on."

"I met an arson in prison," Zack said.

Both sets of eyes turned to him.

"Someday you can tell me that story," Angela said, "and I'll decide if that comment was relevant."

"What's relevancy, anyway?" Fisher asked. "In the scheme of things—"

"I have to go," Zack said. He turned and walked away again. This time it seemed to work. Angela and Fisher ignored him and continued to bicker with each other. Zack allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. He was getting better at social interaction.

Zack found the lighter, the coat was burned and hidden, Sweets went back to work as if nothing had happened, and Zack went in search of Bren.

She wasn't in her office so he padded over to her couch and lay down. It was a familiar position. He's spent a lot of time in here.

He gazed past his shoeless feet to the wall. His thoughts kept drifting; he was so tired. He hoped he could continue to work here, even after everything that happened today. He'd made many choices these past twenty-four hours that others may view as wrong. But he saw the logic behind these choices and he knew what he did was right.

He knew Bren would understand. Maybe she'd even be proud of him.

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If you're curious about Zack's comment about the arson, check out my oneshot, Someone Stole My Shoes, and all will be made clear.


	9. Hodgins

Hodgins records. He writes what he sees, what he doesn't see, and what he wants to see. He makes connections where there aren't, and maybe shouldn't be. He crafts words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, paragraphs into a whole where the sum of the parts are either meaningless or full of life.

He sees the world around him as a tapestry of possibilities. He pinpoints images, metaphor, symbols representing a larger picture. All that he takes in is fodder for the novels he writes. The hard part is figuring out which pieces to use and which to discard.

Hodgins likes the nightclub because it's full of so many varying personalities. People from all walks of life come in here. The homeless man who comes in at eight when the library closes, to get a few more hours of warmth before being compelled to find a bench. The up-and-coming drag queen who tests out her heels on the dance floor. The kids who brandish fake IDs and skulk around with smug grins on their faces. The single twenty-somethings scoping out the competition. The young couples trying to be on the edge. The swaths of partiers decorating the dance floor with the soles of their restless shoes.

And then there's the people who work here. He sees them as they clip through the day like gears in motion. No, not gears. That's too rigid. They're like a current, all moving in the same direction, parting when an obstacle comes their way, curling outward in opposition, always seeking the quickest, most efficient path.

He knows them all. He's been here long enough. There's Angela, the hostess, forward, friendly, sweet, beautiful, and too wrapped up in herself and the others to notice his alluring glances. There's Sweets, the kid who tends bar, who always has something to say, but is also the only one genuinely interested in Hodgins' poetic ramblings. There's that waitress with the squeaky voice and the name of a flower, a bubbly planet around whom everyone else charts a carefully distanced orbit. There's Fisher, the dark, brooding character Hodgins is pretty sure belongs in one of his murder arcs. There's Zack, that weird kid that either bobs around totally focused on a given task or meanders seeking attention from his peers. There's Vincent, always spouting some kind of trivial anecdote while flashing that obsequious English grin. There's Wendell, the stoic bouncer, sharp eyes always looking for an adversary.

And then there's Bren and Booth, the heart of the operation. A couple in love, secured by marital ties, the kind of pair everyone looks at with envy as role models of an ideal relationship. And even aside from that, they're something special. What is it about them that attracts so much devotion from this group, this group of random souls, unrelated by blood or clan? Why is their only common goal linked to these two? How does this pair handle a crowd so devoted?

Who are these people? How do they function in each other's lives, behind the scenes, in the areas of existence that no one on the dance floor is privileged enough to see?

Maybe in another world, another life, another universe, things would be simpler. Maybe they'd all exist on separate planes, unaware of each other's existence. Maybe in this alternative world, they'd focus inward, working on themselves instead of giving so much of them to the people in their vicinity. But which is more poetic, and which more practical? Which life is the more fulfilling of the two? What gives a person more satisfaction?

Maybe there's no way to separate this microcosm. Maybe, in all universes, they somehow manage to find each other. Perhaps under different circumstances, perhaps with varying degrees of familiarity, but always gathering around the same unidentified objective.

It's too bad, Hodgins muses, that there's no way to exist in two realms simultaneously. How incredible that would be, to see clearly how everything could be so different, and yet so much the same.


End file.
